


see your son rising at last

by aloneintherain



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Fire Lord Zuko, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Post-Canon, References to Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: When Zuko dashes into the sitting room, it is with the same wide-eyed panic that he ran from Azula’s smoking hands when he was a child. Iroh bites down on a smile. Zuko looks the same, even now, a decade later with a scar blossomed over one side of his face, green and brown robes replacing the solitary reds of his childhood. His hair is puffed up around his face. He looks like a very frightened, very windswept turtle-dove.Zuko dives behind Iroh just as Aang breezes to a stop in the doorway.Five times Zuko hid behind Iroh, plus one time Zuko stood proudly in front of him.





	see your son rising at last

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 and 2 are full of angst, but the rest of the fic is unrepentant fluff/humour. Warnings for non-descriptive references to child abuse.

1.

 

Iroh finds Zuko in the corner of a shaded courtyard, pressed up against a wooden column. His hands are pushing down on his stomach. His face is tight.

Iroh found one of his men like this once. The soldier was slumped against a tree, unable to support his own weight, clutching at the knife hilt that stuck out of his belly—pale, and shaky, and staring at nothing, like Zuko is now.

“Zuko!” Iroh pulls the boy around to face him, and Zuko flinches. Iroh barely notices. He takes Zuko’s hands. “Are you hurt? Has someone hurt you?”

Zuko’s mouth falls open. “Uncle?”

Zuko’s hands are white. His palms are not slick with blood. There is no tear in his shirt, no dark stain growing bigger as the wound bleeds out. Iroh remembers how to breathe again.

Zuko is fourth in line for the throne; it’s unlikely that he would be the target of an assassination, especially when Iroh, the Crown Prince, is in the Capital. The fear stays with Iroh anyway.

“Are you ill, Prince Zuko?” Iroh presses a hand to Zuko’s forehead. He doesn’t feel feverish. “What’s wrong?”

Zuko takes too long to answer. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t lie to your elders, nephew.”

Zuko’s shoulders hunch around his nears. His hands tangle together and find that place against his stomach again. Does he have a stomach ache? But no, Zuko would say if that was all that was bothering him. Maybe Azula …

“I’m not,” Zuko begins, and then stops. His shoulders go up a fraction. He looks like he might cry.

Ah. That kind of pain—emotional pain. Iroh is glad that Zuko isn’t physically hurt, but he knows that mental suffering can be just as immobilising as physical pain.

“You’re not what?” Iroh asks gently. His hands are still on Zuko’s wrists, and he runs his thumb over the skin there.

“I’m not a good firebender,” Zuko says.

Zuko has always been more sensitive to criticism than Azula or Lu Ten. Ozai doesn’t help. Iroh knows his brother, has heard the unforgiving way he talks to Zuko, and knows how damaging that must be for Zuko’s frayed self confidence.

“You’re young,” Iroh says. “You have plenty of time to improve, and you’re already doing so well—”

“I’m not!” The spark has returned to Zuko’s eyes. For the first time since Iroh found him huddled in on himself, Zuko actually looks alive. “I’m not a good firebender, Uncle. Don’t say that I am! If I was good, then I wouldn’t be—then Father wouldn’t—”

“Your Father is strict,” Iroh says. “Overly so. He wants what is best for you, but sometimes …”

What can Iroh say to fix this? He can’t tell a child that his father is a cruel and arrogant man that holds little regard for others, though Zuko must have seen evidence of this firsthand. Iroh can’t say that Ozai doesn’t mean what he says. Ozai does. And Iroh can’t say that it is for Zuko’s own good—he has heard Ozai scold Zuko in the past. He uses a cold, clipped tone that Iroh would never use on his soldiers, grown men, unless they had endangered their shipmates’ lives.

“I know Father has to do it,” Zuko says. “He has to make sure I learn. But it hurts and—and I always feel so—I feel so—”

“Zuko.”

Zuko flinches so violently he almost topples over. Only Iroh’s grip on his wrists keeps him from falling. Iroh steadies Zuko, and then stands and faces his brother.

Ozai’s mouth is pressed into a flat line. Zuko shuffles to the side, keeping Iroh between him and Ozai. Iroh has seen him do that before, when Azula was chasing after him, intend on scaring her brother with stories, or roughhousing, or stuffing the turtle crabs on Ember Island down his shirt. Zuko used to duck behind Iroh at balls, too, when the older nobles wouldn’t stop pinching his cheeks. And Zuko would sometimes hide behind Iroh when traitors were brought into the throne room in chains, and he became frightened at the sight of a violent adult that might wish to harm him.

But he has never seen Zuko hide from Ozai before.

“Zuko,” Ozai says again. Zuko clutches at the back of Iroh’s robes. “Come here. You haven’t finished your training.”

“Prince Ozai,” Iroh says. “Come now. You shouldn’t overwork the boy. He needs time to rest, time to spend with his visiting uncle—”

“My son will not be lazy and dishonourable.” When Iroh opens his mouth again, Ozai snaps, “He isn’t your boy, Iroh.”

That’s the crux of it—Iroh is not Zuko’s father. What he can do for his nephew is limited. Ozai has all the power here. No one would allow Iroh to interfere, no matter how strict Zuko’s training regime became, or how biting Ozai’s words were—even their father would side with Ozai, because he is Zuko’s blood parent, and so he is the one that can choose what becomes of his son.

Iroh may be the Crown Prince, but in this way, he is powerless.

 _“Zuko,_ ” Ozai says, pointing at the ground by his feet. “Here.”

The warning in his voice is enough to push Zuko out from behind his uncle. His hands are still pressed against his stomach. It’s not a knife wound that keeps his hands there and maybe, Iroh thinks with sinking dread, it is not simply an anxious habit. Not all injuries bleed.

Ozai grabs his son’s forearm as soon as he’s in reach, and Zuko goes limp in his hold. Iroh can only stand there and watch as Ozai drags Zuko away without so much as a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

2.

 

During the day, Zuko stomps around the ship like an angry armadillo-tiger. His forehead is constantly slick with sweat, and his eyes are fever-bright, and sometimes, when he’s been on his feet too long, he lists to the side and almost topples over. Every time, Iroh catches him before he hits the ground, and every time, Zuko jerks out of his hold and stubbornly gets back to his feet. If his mouth isn't dried up from the strain, Zuko will snap something biting. Something unkind.

But at night, Zuko shrinks in on himself. He will let Iroh help him strip off his bulky armour. He’ll let Iroh change his bandages and treat the healing wound. He’ll drink whatever Iroh puts in front of him, quietly, obediently. At night, when he doesn’t have the strength for the kind of bravado he puts up during the day, he’s a different boy—a boy tempered by pain and fever.

The nighttime version of Zuko is harder to watch than the one that exists during the day, who irritates the men and calls Iroh all kind of names. This Zuko flinches when the bandage is being changed and Iroh moves wrong—too sudden, or too close, or too much like he is reaching out to cup Zuko’s face and set him alight.

It’s dusk. Bravado clings to Zuko, though he hardly has the strength for it. He bares his teeth when Iroh reminds him that the bandages have to come off.

“You’ve been sweating in the sun all afternoon,” Iroh points out. “It’s not hygienic, nephew.”

“Fine,” Zuko says through clenched teeth, “but hurry it up. I want to go over the maps again.”

Zuko perches on the edge of the bed, and goes rigid when Iroh sits down beside him. He makes sure there is some space between them; he cannot crowd Zuko and bring his hands near his face at the same time.

“Again? But you’ve already gone over them a dozen time. Surely you know them all by heart.”

The bandages unwind slowly, revealing the inflamed skin underneath. The wound still bleeds when it is irritated.

“I want to be sure,” Zuko says. The square bandage falls into Iroh’s hand without the tight gauze to hold it in place. “And they’re all I have until we can collect the Air Nation scrolls from the temples.”

“Air Normads,” Iroh corrects. “You should take the night off, Prince Zuko. Come and drink tea in my quarters. I can tell you stories of the spirits that dwell in these lands.”

“I’m not a child, Uncle,” Zuko says. “I can’t waste time on spirit stories.”

In some places, people say the Avatar is just a spirit story. It has been almost a century since anyone saw the Avatar; Iroh understands why their existence might have since fallen into legend.

But then, if every other iteration of the Avatar after air has been killed—reborn into the Water Tribe, and then the Earth Kingdom, and then the Fire Nation, only to be cut down each time—then maybe the Avatar is just that. A spirit story.

The rest of the gauze comes away. The gnarled skin looks like a cancerous growth, too big on such a small face.

“Anyone of any age should be able to take a night off and indulgent their uncle in his love of telling tales,” Iroh says. “And you’re thirteen, nephew. You should be kinder on yourself.”

If Iroh said this during the day, when Zuko was busy pacing the length of the ship, he would be yelled at. Now, Zuko’s shoulders hunch around his ears. His eyes are fixed on his hands, balled into fists on his lap.

“I can’t,” Zuko says. _I can’t be that weak._

 _You can,_ Iroh thinks, though he doesn’t say it. _It’s not weakness, nephew._

A knock comes at the door and Zuko jumps. They’re in Zuko’s quarters, but he looks to Iroh instead of getting up and answering.

“Who is it?” Iroh calls.

“Captain Jee, sir. We just came into view of land, but we’re not sure if we can dock in a Fire Nation colony, considering Prince Zuko’s banishment—”

The door cracks open. Iroh and Zuko jerk to their feet. Iroh steps in front of Zuko without thinking about it. Zuko is short enough to hide entirely behind him, though he knows his nephew will grow taller than him soon enough.

Jee stops in the doorway. His eyes flicker to the bed, where the bloodied bandages lay in a pile. Zuko isn’t visible. The way Iroh stands, straight-backed and hard, tells him where the prince is.

“Sir,” Jee says.

“You shouldn’t enter without knocking, Captain.” Iroh sounds playful, though the shaky hand pulling at the back of his robes makes him feel anything but. “It’s not polite.”

“My apologies, sir,” Jee says, “but we’re rapidly approaching land, and we don’t know if—”

“I’ll be right up,” Iroh says.

Jee hesitates, casting conspicuous glances to their feet, where Zuko’s boots peak out behind Iroh’s robes.

“Captain,” Iroh snaps. “You’re dismissed.”

“Sir,” Jee says again, and turns on his heel, and flees. The door clangs shut behind him.

Zuko stumbles away. His temples are damp with sweat, even though their quarters grow cool after dusk.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says. “I didn’t mean to—the crew shouldn’t see me be weak, since I’m their superior officer, but I know it was cowardly to just—”

“Zuko,” Iroh says softly. “Would you care for some tea?”

Zuko’s eyes snap to Iroh’s face. Iroh makes himself smile, though he doesn’t feel much like smiling.

“What?” Zuko asks.

“Tea. And spirit stories. My quarters are so lonely and cold. I wish to have company for a night. I might have to ask you to stay with me—the cold seeps into my old bones, and it would help to have body warmth to chase it away.”

Zuko’s throat works as he tries to swallow. His mouth has dried up again. Iroh still doesn’t know if the dryness comes from dehydration from frequent sweating or if it is a byproduct of the fear.

“My bandages,” Zuko says.

“We will put fresh bandages on,” Iroh says, “and then we will have dinner in my quarters.”

This Zuko, feverish and exhausted from hours of pushing through the strain of a fresh injury, likes being told what to do. He hides from the crew, but he goes boneless under Iroh’s stare and quiet direction. He likes not having to think. He likes being guided somewhere safe.

He trusts Iroh. In the beginning, he had feared that when Zuko woke after what Ozai did to him, he might stop trusting altogether. But Zuko still trusts Iroh to protect him, to heal him. To not hurt him.

“Okay,” Zuko says. “That sounds …”

“Nice,” Iroh says, because he knows Zuko won’t let himself say it. “A quiet night together sounds nice, Prince Zuko.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

3.

 

Zuko slots into the Jasmine Dragon seamlessly. With an apron on and a quill tucked behind one ear, he fits right in with the other servers Iroh employs. He would have gone unnoticed entirely if wasn’t for the keen eyes of Iroh’s regulars.

“A fine young man you have working today, Iroh,” Madam Xiu says, watching Zuko dart between tables over the rim of her teacup.

“Yes, I noticed him, too,” Ji Lin says. “Where have you been hiding him away?”

The two women have been friends with Iroh since before the end of the war, and have known Iroh’s true identity almost as long—Ji Lin fled the Fire Nation after her family became too deeply entrenched in propaganda and had recognised Iroh’s face when she came in for tea one day with Madam Xing.

To her credit, Madam Xiu is an expert at keeping secrets. She is also an expert at finding attractive young people to work in her establishments.

“None of that,” Iroh says.

“Is he looking for other forms of employment?” Madam Xiu says slyly.

“I should hope not,” Iroh says.

On any other day, Iroh would sound sterner, but since Zuko had burst into his teashop that morning, carrying an armful of political scrolls, Iroh hadn’t been able to stop smiling. The few workers preparing to open the teashop hadn’t known what to make of the man in rumpled silk robes panting in the entryway and rambling about trade agreements, but Iroh had laughed and wrestled the scrolls from Zuko, and lead him into the back room. Zuko tried to argue, at first, but Iroh was used to Zuko putting up a fight when he tried to take care of him.

Zuko must have been more tired than he would admit, because it didn’t take long before he stopped arguing, and let Iroh pull his hair free from its traditional topknot and brush it out. The damaged, uneven ends had been lopped off by disgruntled servants back home, and now fell to his neck Zuko’s neck in a thick, solid curtain.

Zuko had changed out of his crimson robes and into his old uniform. Iroh hid the crown and expensive silk under bags of flour, pushed an apron and a notebook at Zuko, and then ushered his nephew out onto the shop floor to help the other servers set up for the day. Free labour was free labour, after all.

And the way Zuko had slowly relaxed as the Jasmine Dragon filled with customers who barely gave him a second glance, falling into the old routine of brewing tea and waiting tables—an easy, monotonous routine where a mistake would result in a shattered teapot or an annoyed customer, rather than the deaths of thousands of civilians under his care—was a gift of its own.

“He’s my nephew,” Iroh says. “He’s visiting Ba Sing Se, so of course I put him to work.”

“Iroh,” Ji Lin begins, “when you say nephew, do you mean _that_ nephew? The one you always speak of?”

“I only have the one, yes.”

Ji Lin and Madam Xiu blink and look at Zuko with fresh eyes. Zuko finishes wiping down an empty table and heads over to greet new customers—a crowd of teenagers who give Zuko their undivided attention. Zuko’s eyes go wide. That stiff, startled look—it is the same expression his nephew wears when older nobles and military officials try to push their children onto him at balls in the hopes of creating a viable match.

At least Zuko is getting better at recognising when he is the subject of romantic attention. Iroh had been forced to watch Zuko obliviously bulldoze his way through many similar situations for years.

Ji Lin and Madam Xiu quickly recover from their shock. Watching a teenager flush pink and fumble with his notebook at the attention of his peers is enough to calm any fear that instinctually arises at the sudden presence of the Fire Lord.

“He’s sweet,” Ji Lin says after a moment. She sounds surprised by her own words.

“Zuko is a kind young man,” Iroh says. “A _good_ young man.”

“Yes, we know,” Madam Xiu says, smirking at him. “I’m not surprised in the slightest. I’ve heard you go on and on about him—of course he’s a good kid.”

Zuko’s hair falls in front of his eyes. One of the boys reaches out, as though to sink his fingers through Zuko’s hair, but Zuko jerks back. He jots down the last of their orders, and then swiftly weaves his way across the teashop to Iroh.

“Uncle,” Zuko says, “do you know if there are any spare headbands, or maybe—”

Iroh reaches into the front pocket of his apron, and holds out a pile of clips. They’re a dark gold, almost bronze in colour—high quality, precious even, but without the glossy sheen of the gold clips Zuko wears as the Fire Lord, the ones that catch the light and glitter like his crown. These clips can easily be explained away as gifts from an indulgent older relative who owned their own business. They wouldn’t immediately mark Zuko as royalty if he slipped into the markets for air, or continued spending his afternoons in the Jasmine Dragon.

“Uncle,” Zuko says.

“Grooming is very important, nephew. There’s no need to run around looking like you’ve been caught in a windstorm.”

Zuko scowls, but slides the clips into his hair so that it keeps most of it out of his face.

Madam Xiu leans around Zuko, and whispers, “Honey, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for some extra cash, would you? Handsome face like yours could go a long way.”

Ji Lin chokes on her tea. “Xiu, _no.”_

“I am his uncle and I am sitting right here,” Iroh says. Madam Xiu just throws her dark curls over her shoulder and smiles at him, unrepentant.

“What?” Zuko says. “What does she mean, Uncle?”

“It’s not important,” Iroh says, standing up from the table. “Let's leave these two in peace. It’s about time you had your lunch break.”

The door opens noisily, and Ming hurries into Jasmine Dragon in her full guard uniform. Hideki follows a step behind, similarly dressed in Fire Nation regalia. The both look flustered.

“Damnit,” Zuko hisses, and ducks behind Iroh.

Ming scans the shop. She seems oblivious to the sudden hush that has fallen over the teashop at her presence. When she spots Iroh, she rushes over to him.

“Sir,” she says, her voice hushed, “I’m sorry, but we can’t find Fire Lord Zuko. He had a meeting with several minor Earth Kingdom kings this morning, and then he just … vanished.”

“Did he just?” Iroh says mildly.

Hideki sighs at Iroh’s lack of concern, all the panic bleeding out of him. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Ming closes her eyes like she’s in pain. “We searched so many places. Why didn’t we think to come here first?”

“For a workaholic, the kid is surprisingly hard to keep a hold of,” Hideki says. “And so _slippery.”_

“Sorry for barging in on you like this, Iroh,” Ming says.

Iroh smiles, waving a hand in the air. “It’s no trouble at all. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll have a waiter fetch you some tea.” Iroh raises his voice so the rest of the shop can hear him. “Everyone is welcome at the Jasmine Dragon, so long as they bring good will and good company with them.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Ji Lin says, gesturing to the empty seats at their table.

“We should really go and find—” Ming begins.

“Nonsense,” Iroh says, bustling them into the empty seats. “Sit, sit. Lee here will go and fetch your drinks. Isn’t that right, Lee?”

Iroh steps aside. Zuko stares at them all with wide eyes now that his hiding place is no longer available.

Ming snorts at the sight of Zuko’s uniform. Hideki squints up at Zuko, and says, “Really? Really?”

“You try and deal with five kings trying to yell at you about century-old trade negotiations you don’t fully understand,” Zuko hisses under his breath. “You'd want to go and work in a teashop for a day, too.”

Hideki’s eyes go soft. Ming stops laughing.

Zuko’s personal guards have been with him since the beginning of his reign. They’ve seen the long evenings Zuko spends hunched over his desk. They’ve seen him in secluded corridors between meetings, trying to catch his breath even though he hasn’t been running, panic eating away at the space in his lungs. They’ve seen the way he dresses down corrupt generals who ordered good men to the slaughter, have loomed behind him, big and threatening and protective, when those same military officials tried to talk down to their teenage Fire Lord.

They understand.

“Do they have biscuits here?” Hideki asks.

“What are Earth Kingdom desserts like?” Ming says.

“We have sticky-rice cakes,” Zuko volunteers. “Egg custard tarts. Sesame biscuits.”

“Try one of each,” Iroh says. “My gift. It’s the least I can do after you were running around Ba Sing Se all day.”

Zuko ducks his head. “I’m sorry. I should have left a note or something.”

“We’re glad you’re okay,” Ming says.

Ming doesn’t tell him that that—not knowing if Zuko was safe—had been the thing that made today unbearable, more than having to search through overcrowded streets and unfamiliar suburbs. They all knew he was capable of defending himself and could—and had on more than one account—sneak away from them for hours at a time, but it was the lingering possibility that he hadn’t snuck away, that someone had gotten the better of him, that had fuelled their search all morning, had made them panic and forget to seek out Iroh first.

Zuko excuses himself to fetch them their tea and desserts, and Hideki slips out to tell the rest of the team of guards that Zuko was with Iroh, safe and accounted for.

“Do you mind if I steal him for the rest of the afternoon?” Iroh asks. “We get so busy here, and it’s good to have an extra pair of hands.”

There are more than enough staff to take care of the slow trickle of customers. Ming doesn’t point that out. She settles back in her seat, mentally preparing to spend the rest of the day tucked away, watching her Fire Lord waiting tables.

“Of course,” Ming says, and doesn’t argue when Iroh, Ji Lin, and Madam Xiu try and rope her into a game of Pai Sho.

 

* * *

 

 

 

4.

 

When he was younger, Zuko used to duck behind Iroh when Azula was chasing him. It wasn’t always a safe place to hide—Iroh would often fish him out from the folds of his robes and encourage him to play with his sister. Then, Zuko would take off to look for Ursa. She was more willing to let him use her as a shield than Iroh was.

When Zuko dashes into the sitting room, it is with the same wide-eyed panic that he ran from Azula’s smoking hands. Iroh bites down on a smile. He looks the same, even now, a decade later with a scar blossomed over one side of his face, green and brown robes replacing the solitary reds of his childhood. His hair is puffed up around his face. He looks like a very frightened, very windswept turtle-dove.

Zuko dives behind Iroh just as Aang breezes to a stop in the doorway. Air whips through the room, and Iroh steadies his tea set before it topples off the table.

“Hello, Avatar Aang,” Iroh says evenly.

“Hi, Iroh,” Aang says, beaming. “Do you want to go down the mail shoot with us?”

“No one,” Zuko orders, “is going down that mail shoot.”

“We’re all taking it in turns,” Aang tells Iroh, ignoring Zuko. “You should join us! You can’t go to Omashu and not ride down the mail shoot.”

Iroh holds up his teacup. “I’m afraid I’m too old for that kind of fun. I’d rather sit here and enjoy my tea.”

“Tea, yes,” Zuko says. “I have to join Uncle for tea.”

“We weren’t supposed to have tea together until after our dinner with the King, nephew. Don’t you remember?”

“Uncle!” Zuko’s voice cracks halfway through the world. He grabs Iroh’s robes, clinging.

Aang swerves around Iroh and scoops Zuko up around the middle. Zuko doesn’t let go of Iroh’s robe, and the force of it almost causes Iroh to spill his tea.

“Uncle,” Zuko begs. He flails, almost kicking Aang in the head. “Uncle, don’t let him take me. I’ve seen how steep that drop is. I’ve seen it. No human should go down that thing.”

Aang reaches out and untangles Zuko’s fingers from Iroh’s robe. “Sorry for bothering you, Iroh,” he says. “Can we join you for tea later?”

“Put me down, Aang. I’m your teacher. I’m the Fire Lord. Listen to me! Aang!”

“Of course,” Iroh says. “Invite the rest of your friends. The more the merrier.”

“I’ll make you an enemy of the Fire Nation again. Do you remember what that was like? Do you?”

“So dramatic,” Iroh tuts. “Go have fun with your friends, Fire Lord Zuko. Young people should try new things, go on adventures—it’s good for you!”

“You’re both dead to me,” Zuko says. “Do you hear me, Aang? Dead.”

“Thanks, Iroh!” Aang says brightly. He manhandles Zuko so that he’s slung over one shoulder. Aang waves goodbye to Iroh with his free hand, and then bounces for the door and disappears.

Ten minutes later, the unmistakable sound of Zuko’s crackling scream rings out over Omashu. Iroh hides his grin in his tea.

 

* * *

 

 

5.

 

Iroh is always aware of where Zuko is. Although, at balls like this, it would be hard to be unaware of him. The royal tailor and her team had been working all week on his outfit. His crown and the gold on his trailing robes wink in the torchlight, drawing the eye.

But even when Zuko disappears into the throngs of nobles clambering for his attention, Iroh is still half-aware of where his nephew is. He’s not surprised when, sometime later, after Iroh has migrated to the balcony, Zuko comes tearing out of the ballroom and almost barrels into him.

Iroh steadies Zuko without spilling his sake. Zuko grabs at Iroh’s robes like a drowning man.

“Uncle,” he pants, “you have to help me.”

“Oh? Whatever is the matter, nephew? Surely your guards would do a better job of protecting you than me.”

They both know that Iroh would move heaven and earth if someone tried to hurt Zuko in his presence, but Zuko doesn’t point that out.

“The guards can’t help me with this. Uncle, please.”

The gossamer curtains sectioning off the balcony from the rest of the party are pulled aside, revealing a flock of well-dressed young women. They beam when they see Zuko. He gulps and inches closer to Iroh, until he’s half-hidden behind his uncle.

One of the women pushes to the front of the crowd and drops into a curtsey. “Prince Iroh, may I request the presence of your esteemed nephew for the next dance?”

Out of view, Zuko clutches at the back of Iroh’s robes, the way he used to grab at him when he was child and Azula was telling scary stories.

“I’m afraid I’ve asked the Fire Lord to spend some time with me,” Iroh says. “It’s good of him to keep an old man such as myself company, especially when tonight’s party is full of such beauties.”

The group doesn’t seem to think it’s a good thing, but the front woman curtsies again, and says, “Yes, we must be attentive towards our elders, Your Highness.”

“I’m sure His Majesty will come and dance with you later in the evening,” Iroh says.

When they’ve disappeared back into the party, Zuko hisses, “Don’t promise them that! I don’t want to dance with anyone here.”

“But you like dancing,” Iroh says.

Zuko goes pink, but doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Iroh has seen how Zuko dances when he is with his friends, pulled easily into the swaying group whenever music starts up near them, falling into step with them like they have been dance partners their entire lives.

“Not this kind of dancing,” Zuko says. “Stiff and formal, without passion. Here, my dance partners have ulterior motives.”

“We can’t spend our lives fearful that everyone we encounter will have ulterior motives. Especially you, Fire Lord Zuko. Wary, yes. But fleeing ballrooms to hide behind your uncle, because some of the nobility might wish to become your Fire Lady in the future?”

“You don’t want me to seek you out during parties, Uncle?”

Iroh tucks a stray lock of hair behind Zuko’s ear. “You know that’s not what I meant. I want you to enjoy your life to the fullest, not shy away from opportunities. That’s all.”

Zuko leans into Iroh’s touch, rests some of his weight on Iroh’s shoulder. A sign of how emotionally and physically drained he is. Iroh would have to play the doting uncle card again tonight and escort Zuko out of the ballroom before anyone else tries to steal him away to talk business or curry favour.

“Opportunities? The opportunity to be fawned over by strangers who only care for my title.” Zuko makes a face. “Or felt up by my dance partner.”

“Yes,” Iroh says, gently pushing Zuko back into the ballroom. “Exactly.”

Zuko stumbles out of the balcony and into the arms of an eagle-eyed young woman in silk. He shoots Iroh a betrayed glare. Iroh waves at him with his sake glass, beaming.

He will rescue Zuko … after a few more dances. Iroh drinks the rest of his sake, sets down his glass, and sweeps into the ballroom to find a dance partner of his own.

 

* * *

 

 

 

\+ 1

 

 

The ribbons strung up around the pavilion catch the torchlight, turning them a brilliant gold. Guests dressed in Fire Nation crimson, Water Tribe furs, and traditional Earth Kingdom garb mill around, waiting for the party to begin in full.

It is a familiar sight nowadays, as every passing week pushes them further and further away from the war, but it stops Iroh every time. He can’t imagine his appreciation ever not taking his breath away, no matter how many weeks are between him and the war. When he was a boy, the growing crowd of red, blue, and jade green would have been unthinkable. But his nephew has helped make this a reality. Zuko has achieved the impossible.

People try and stop Iroh as he passes through the pavilion, but when he says he is looking for the man of the hour, they step aside. When he almost collides with a group in Water Tribe blue, Hakoda ushers them out of his way, and says, “Go find your boy, Iroh.”

Toph, leant against the back wall, her feet bare beneath a pale jumpsuit that isn’t formal enough for this event, toasts him with her half-full goblet. “Good luck dragging the overgrown salamander out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.”

“I’m sure he’s just having trouble with the fastenings on his robes,” Iroh says.

Toph snorts. “Tell him that if he’s not out by the time the sun comes up, I’ll track him down and carry him here myself.”

Toph clearly likes the thought of bodily carrying the Fire Lord into throngs of guests at his own party. The sky is already a pale, starless purple; Iroh will have to hurry if he wants to spare Zuko that indignity.

Iroh excuses himself with a shallow bow, and slips through the curtains that section off the pavilion from the palace proper.

He finds Zuko two storeys up, curled in a window nook, watching the sky grow lighter and lighter. His long, golden-hued robes are bunched under him.

“Fire Lord Zuko, what are you doing hiding up here?” Iroh says loudly, jerking Zuko from his revery. “There’s a party going on downstairs! You’re missing out on the festivities.”

“It hasn’t started yet,” Zuko says. “The sun still sleeps.”

“It will rise soon. And when it does, you are supposed to be with your guests to welcome it.”

Zuko’s lips press into a thin line. Iroh can see the stiff way he holds himself beneath the layers of finery.

Iroh sits beside his nephew on the nook, and lowers his voice. “What are you afraid of, nephew?”

“I’m not afraid,” Zuko grumbles. “It’s just … When dawn breaks, I’ll be twenty. _Twenty_.”

“That’s not very old,” Iroh says. “Trust me. I’ve seen many birthdays come and go. Twenty is still very young.”

“I know in the grand scheme of things, twenty isn’t very old, but I never thought I’d live to see it. When I was banished, when we were refugees, when I turned traitor, and then even the after the war, when I was crowned, with all the assassination attempts and the threat of war breaking out again …” Zuko takes a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure I’d make it to twenty. Sometimes, it seemed like an impossible goal.”

“But you did do it, nephew,” Iroh says. “It wasn’t impossible—you did it.”

The Capitol is spread out beneath them. On any ordinary day, the Capitol would just waking, but today, the entire city, the entire country, has awoken early in celebration of the Fire Lord’s twentieth birthday. Even those who are not joining the festivities are looking at the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise—for the rest of Zuko’s life to begin.

Zuko wrenches his gaze away from his capital city and the washed out sky, and turns to Iroh. He looks so lost.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Zuko says.

Iroh pulls Zuko into a hug. He’s stronger and taller than Iroh now, but he falls into Iroh’s arms like he’s a child again.

“It’s real,” Iroh says into Zuko’s hair. It’s grown out past his collarbones, no longer the fluffy bob it was in the months after Zuko’s coronation, and is fastened into a half-up, half-down hairstyle. “I promise, Zuko. This is real.”

For a long minute, Zuko just breathes against Iroh’s shoulder. Grounding himself. Taking in the morning air. When he pulls away, he looks more settled. Focused.

“Sorry,” Zuko says.

“None of that,” Iroh scolds. “Are you ready to go and greet your guests?”

Zuko looks pained at the reminder of the hundreds of people gathered to see him. The two of them have been greeting guests all week as they travelled to the Fire Nation Capitol for the Fire Lord’s party.

(The Avatar and his friends arrived eight days ago. They had had a small party in the gardens—just the six of them and Iroh, a mountain of fresh food from the kitchens, a picnic blanket spread out on the grass, and a healthy dose of sake. It felt right that Zuko would be able to celebrate his birthday with his family before having to share it with the world.)

But this would be a whole different kind of greeting. An introduction to Zuko, the man, stepping fully into adulthood.

“How are they?” Zuko asks. “Is anyone causing any trouble?”

“No,” Iroh says. “Everyone looked as though they were enjoying themselves.”

“No one is talking about how young I am to have been on the throne for so long?”

“No,” Iroh says, firmer now. “I have kept an ear to the ground, Lord Zuko. No one is saying anything of the sort.”

It has been a long time since a Fire Lord celebrated their twentieth birthday. Zuko is the youngest Fire Lord in centuries, and after almost four years, many people have forgotten that. Iroh had been concerned that this milestone would serve as a reminder of how young Zuko still is, but that worry has been unfounded.

Not accounting for the more traditionalist noblemen and the radicalists, Zuko’s youth and stubborn demand for peace have endeared him to the world.

Zuko stands and smoothes down his robes. He ducks his head so Iroh can straighten his crown and tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

“There,” Iroh says. “You’re ready, nephew.”

“I don’t feel ready,” Zuko says.

“No one ever really does, but we continue onwards anyway.” Iroh squeezes his arm. “Happy birthday, nephew.”

They head back down to the pavilion. The murmur of voices floats up through the curtains and into the corridor.

Iroh embraces his nephew one more, and then he slips through the curtain and into the pavilion.

Iroh takes a few steps back, so all eyes will be on Zuko. Toph pushes off from the wall. Her glass is empty. Iroh is not sure if she was drinking juice or something stronger—it may be early morning, but on a day like today, alcohol will be flowing from pre-dawn to dusk, and then onwards, as the festivities continue on for the full twenty-four hours, as tradition dictates.

“The sun is about to come up,” Toph says. “Shame. I was looking forward to parading Sparky around like a pet lemur-monkey.”

“You can always do that later today,” Iroh reassures her.

Toph grins. “I might just do that, thanks.”

The curtains are pulled aside. Zuko steps out into the pavilion and climbs the dais. The crowd goes silent.

Zuko stands atop the dais. They wait for half a minute in complete silence. And then they see the sun’s first rays peek over the horizon, and the hundreds of guests in the sweeping pavilion begin to cheer. Beside him, Toph bellows, _“Happy birthday, Firepants!”_ so loudly that Iroh almost loses his balance.

Hundreds of people wish the Zuko happy birthday, and good health and longevity, and congratulations at once—a jumble of shouts and joyous applause. Iroh sees Ursa half in shadow by the columns, shying away from the crowds, but smiling at her son, warm and pained and proud all at once. Kiyi is in her father’s arms, pumping her fists in the air.

Iroh sees the Kyoshi Warriors boosting Ty Lee onto their shoulders, so she can wave at Zuko from the opposite side of the crowded pavilion. He sees Suki and Sokka ducking to avoid Ty Lee’s flailing foot, laughing and whooping all the while.

He sees Aang and Katara at the front of the crowds, clapping louder than anyone. Aang is suspiciously misty-eyed. Katara nudges him and laughs, but she looks as though she’s in a similar state.

He sees hundreds of people gathered to welcome his nephew officially into adulthood.

He sees Zuko, his child, his Fire Lord, stood in front of the hundreds that have gathered to welcome him officially into adulthood, tall and proud and grown, backlit by the dawning sun.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: In the Fire Nation, you are legally an adult at 16, but your 20th birthday is a separate and important cultural milestone—it is the day you truly leave your childhood behind. Families and friends gather in the morning, and you greet them when the sun first comes over the horizon, symbolically stepping into the sun and welcoming the new chapter in your life. Considering Zuko is the Fire Lord, the entire nation rises early to see the sunrise on his 20th, even if they can’t see him in person. 
> 
> Thank you to the anon that told me about Ming, a canon guard in ATLA. The other guard and Iroh's friends are brief OCs. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr at captainkirkk


End file.
